The Devil You Know
by GalInTheMoon
Summary: For the right price Barney Barton will do just about anything. When a bounty is placed on Clint's arm he's not only willing to claim it, he makes it his personal responsibility. Pre-Avengers, Clintasha, whump. Rated for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

_For the right price Barney Barton will do just about anything. When a bounty is placed on Clint's arm he's not only ready to claim it, he takes it on as his responsibility_

 _AU, pre-Avengers, possibleWIP, angst & whump, Clintasha, HoHClint _

_Rated T: for violence and language (let me know if the rating needs upgraded to M and it will happen)_

 _I am planning a part two for this, but it may take a while to wrap it up. There is no plot here and if you've read any of my other stories you may recognize Barney's often mentioned D.C. "visit" (if not, no worries, this should stand alone). It's set several years before the Avengers, and fairly early in Natasha and Clint's partnership. Clint is around 29, Natasha is older (I'm sticking with the comics and her Red Room enhancements have slowed/stopped her aging. Though I haven't settled on the age difference I want for this AU)._

 _Thanks for reading!_

 _Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel. No profit is made. For entertainment only._

 _Not beta read._

 **The Devil You Know**

By: GalInTheMoon

Natasha watched him sleeping beside her. His chest slowly rising and falling, his lips parted, slack in sleep. She sat up and pulled her knees to her chest, rubbing her wrists as a phantom held her near for the briefest of moments before she shook it off, clinched her jaw, and slipped out of bed. The small living room of Clint's house was lit from a streetlamp outside. An amber glow settled gently over the tops of the rooms exposed surfaces. While the shadows huddled dark, and deep where the soft light could not reach them in their nooks and crannies. The one-story, small box of a colonial on the far outskirts of D.C. had more than a few. It had been a farmhands residence at the time of its construction and though it was simple it also had the odd small cubby here and there whose purpose was long forgotten. For Natasha it was a place that quickly and easily felt like home and she had yet to decide if the credit were due to the home itself or the resident. Everything about it reminded her of Clint. From its exposed beam door-frames, and the old brick that refused to hide behind any patch job, to the fact that its humble origins were proudly on display without any attempt to add decorative flourish or artifice. It was what it was and there was beauty in its simple, solid structure. In its perseverance.

She took a deep breath, pulling her oversized sweater around herself as she looked outside the rippled glass of the old paned window. Foliage and the quiet street outside were bathed in the same warm amber haze as the living room. Despite the fall night's warmth she couldn't shake a chill that seemed to have nothing to do with the temperature of the room. She leaned over and lit the gas fireplace in the corner before turning to the armchair in the opposite corner to drop into.

She'd been tossing and turning in bed for hours. It was now three in the morning and she was tired of trying to silence her mind that raced and jumped from one thought to another. She watched the flames dance and thought. A year and eight months. It had been nearly six hundred days since she ran across five rooftops to get to her partner only to find the spot he had been standing on, joking with her over coms moments before, was gone. It had been twenty months, three days since they had spent nearly an hour digging him out, thirty minutes stabilizing him for transport, and another forty-five minutes to get him to a SHIELD medical facility. Two hours and fifteen minutes that felt like twenty years in the moment, but was a blur in retrospect. Unlike the long, endless, torturous months that followed.

She shook off the past and looked around the small room. Hoping maybe to find something to distract her from the weight of her thoughts, but there was nothing personal here. No mementos, no decorations, no photos other than the one resting on the small mantle of the two of them. A picture she suspected that found its way into his bags when he left. The minimalism was partially by choice and partially because Clint had so few personal items to display. He had nothing from an old life and nothing from a new one. He was drifting still. Just like her. There was also that old survival tool of the unwanted, the disregarded, the abused: You show nothing, you risk nothing. You don't give the bastards a weapon to use against you. It was logical, it was even instinctual, but it was sure as shit depressing. She took a deep breath, clinched her jaw, and stared back out the window.

Trust. She scoffed at the thought. You may as well have asked either one of them to sprout wings and fly. Sure she was no longer an enemy to all, an ally to SHIELD, even if every agent looked at her like she was one bad hello away from snapping their necks, but after almost six years her loyalty was still foremost with Clint. SHIELD was little more than a patch on her sleeve. There was no forgetting they had wanted her removed, permanently wiped from the list of those they deemed a threat, and that Clint alone had advocated a different fate. That he had put his own neck in the rope and refused to kill her. He had seen something in her, something worth saving. She couldn't forget the risk he had taken, nor could she forget that the council in turn had disregarded him as nothing more than a dot on a map, expendable. Collateral. The past twenty months had strained her already hesitant loyalty to the breaking point and in any burgeoning trust to dust.

She was being paranoid, she knew it, but she couldn't shake the distrust that permeated every corner of SHIELD in the near two years since the disastrous Operation Shadow Whip. The goal had been mass extraction, a clearing of civilians fast and clean in the dark of night to a safe zone, but the council piggy-backed their own team, and their own mission within the mission. Their only goal had been to find and hide away the Shadow Whip, an advanced sonic weapon. They had kept intel from everyone, from the Director to the newest grunt, to keep their bounty secret and secure at the risk of every boot on the ground. Of course it had been Barton who found the trouble that waited for any one of them. While searching for those left behind he had walked onto a pressure-triggered mine retrofitted with the Shadow Whip's tech. Their deception had nearly cost him his life, had taken a long and painful recovery, and left him with permanent hearing loss. And the Shadow Whip? Gone without a trace, without a word, but everyone involved knew the council had it hidden away. That they were using it for their own purposes, for their own means, and goals. And the list of people involved was dwindling. How could she not be suspicious of everything that the council touched? How could she not suspect they wanted her partner removed now that it was clear he wasn't staying down?

Outside a car passed, its headlights sending two bright rectangles running across the room. She watched them as they traveled around passing over Clint standing in the bedroom doorway, rubbing his hand through his hair.

"Can't sleep?" He asked.

For a second she wondered if it were a question or a statement. She shook her head, "No."

He walked farther into the room, "Must be catching." He sat on the chair close to her with a thump.

"Sorry." She frowned.

"Psh, when have I ever slept through the night?" He looked her over. "What's up?"

She shook her head, "Nothing." Caught his doubting stare, and conceded a little, "I don't know."

Taking a shot, he asked, "When do you head out?"

"Tomorrow morning, _this_ morning." She looked at the ceiling and flipped her hair, wild from the attempt to sleep. "In a few hours."

"Where to?"

"Lisbon."

"Again?" He kicked his feet up on the coffee-table, slowly crossing his legs at the ankle.

"Follow up. You on watch while I'm out?"

"Where else. Pretty sure at this point I'm gonna have a permanent imprint on my ass."

"What are they thinking? I need you out there."

"It is what it is Nat."

"Which is?"

He leaned over, his hand on her arm. "Temporary..." he gripped lightly, "Have patience."

"Why now? You've been back for almost a year."

He shrugged, "Five months." It was far less than nearly a year, but maybe he was splitting hairs.

"Aren't you suspicious?"

"Nothing to be suspicious about. It's the right call." He watched her a moment. His brow creased, "I can see those wheels turning. There's no...it's not..." He shifted and took a breath, "I asked to be out for a while. _I_ asked for the break."

She was surprised. She was even a little hurt but she pushed it aside to emotionlessly process. If he went to Phil with this he was keeping it close. It implied uncertainty, doubt, possibly even fear. Going to Fury was more formal, more professional, more certain. More finished. "Did you go to Phil or Fury?"

"Phil. It's only for a little while."

"You're scared."

"I'm cautious."

"Close enough. I think you need to stay out there. To keep moving forward, Clint we've been doing so well. You're solid."

"I know you think that Nat, but I'm...I need some time. That's all."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He grinned apologetically, "I liked seeing your certainty."

She watched him a moment before walking by him, grabbing a pillow from the bedroom, and coming back out.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

She threw the pillow on the couch, "I'm sleeping here."

"Tash."

"You lied to me." She scowled at him as she grabbed a camp blanket from the shelf under the coffee-table and threw it by the pillow. "And you've been lying for a week. You should have trusted me with this. We're partners. That should have meant more than your pride."

"Like I know what the hell that is anymore!" Feeling bad for raising his voice he moved forward to help her spread the blanket. She pulled it from his grasp. "Damn it Nat I'm sorry. I am. I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"I'm not hurt. I'm pissed at you. I'm furious! Since when do we keep things from each other?"

"Since when? Nat, since everything turned on its side. Since you've seen me cry just because it hurt so damn much to put a toe on the ground. Since you and Phil had to wait on me hand and foot because I was too helpless to do a damn thing for myself!" He took a steadying breath, "Since I lost every notion I had that I could take on anything if I put out the effort, anything at all." His was begging her to understand as his hand was still reaching to help her with the blanket.

She didn't pull it from him this time, "And I've been there every step of the way."

"You have, Nat, you have, and I appreciate it every day. I swear I do, but...but my idea of who I am was left back on that roof. I couldn't remember, I couldn't _feel_ who I was anymore, but once we were back out there. The way you looked at me, without a trace of concern or pity, I could. I didn't want to lose that. I needed to see your certainty. I still do." He stepped away from her and turned before walking back, collected. "Be angry with me. You should. It was selfish and wrong but you gotta know it wasn't about pride."

She took a breath, steeling herself against his raw look in his eyes "You're ready. You've been ready."

"Maybe I was, but I'm not. Not now. I'm close."

"I've seen it. I've watched you-"

"Not for a while." He interrupted calmly. Thankful that she hadn't seen him in the grip of panic that he had thought was in the past, back in the early days of his recovery, until it had come roaring back to life in the past couple months. The worst of which was while they were on mission, when her safety had been on the line. It had been the last straw for him and the point at which he had talked to Phil about taking some time.

"You've been cleared. You've been active." Why was she arguing this with him, she asked herself as the words still tumbled out. The same argument again and again.

"Stop Tash. You're gonna lose focus out there."

"So be out there with me."

His jaw clinched before he looked away, "I want to..." He looked at her again, "I want to have your back out there so bad it makes me even more stupid than comes naturally..." He smiled weakly, "but I can't. I _can't_ and you gotta promise me you're going to have your head on straight. That you're going to get your ass home." She dropped the blanket as did he, and walked over to him. She rubbed her hand along his temple before it found its way to his earlobe, "I'm not the one you need to worry about."

He stopped her, taking her hand in his own, pulling it down and kissing her fingers. "I do. You've been fighting for me for too long."

She bit her lip. He was right. She had been so focused on getting him back, and then looking out for him once he was, that she had lost a little of her own self-preservation. The change was so small though she had barely noticed it herself until now when he called her on it.

Trying to ease the weight that had settled into the room he pulled on her hand, "Would you dance with me? Forget about what an idiot I am for a minute?" He wrapped his arms around her as she stood and they began to sway slowly in the silent living room. The floorboards creaked beneath them and the firelight waved on the walls in layers of dancing light.

"There's no music romeo." She grinned at him.

He feigned surprise, "You don't hear that?"

She nodded no, smiling at his playfulness.

"It sounds something like." He began to sing-song, "I Lo-" She put her finger on his lips and stopped him. He smiled and leaned forward, kissing her. When they parted he smiled, "You hear it now?"

She grinned, teasing, "A little."

He kissed her again. "It's been a long couple years."

"Twenty months and three days." She corrected.

"I'm sorry."

"You're ready."

He swallowed and pulled her close while he looked out the window, toward the shrubs awash in amber street light across the way. The momentary reprieve was lost. He had to be open with her. It would cost him but she needed the truth of it. He had played it close for too long, had kept her in the dark. She needed to know. "When it hits I can't breathe, I can't think straight, I can't focus. It's as bad as ever Tash and it stops me dead. There's no warning. There's no controlling it. It just...I wish I..." he trailed off, there was so much that he wished could be, that so much had never been. There was too much to mention.

"Clint." She said as he stepped back, away from her. She thought of the times his coms were mysteriously silent, or he arrived at a rendezvous point a little late, sweating and exhausted as if he'd just run a marathon without explanation. The times he seemed to evaporate. There one minute, gone the next. In hindsight she knew what it was. It had been obvious. If she had only been willing to see it. She suddenly felt that she owed him the apology. She had wanted him back so badly she'd chosen to be blind to him struggling beside her. She wanted to apologize for having not seen it, but before she could say it Clint's voice broke through her thoughts.

"And there it is." He said, seeing that old pity return to her eyes. He could go his entire life and never see that look again. He started walking toward the bedroom before he stopped, and walked the two steps back to her, "Keep your head in the job tomorrow. I'll see you when you get back." He kissed her cheek and walked out of the room. Natasha watched him until he disappeared around the door frame before dropping onto the couch.

The past couple years had seen him brought low. He'd had to swallow more pride than he'd ever realized he possessed in the name of healing. And it wasn't like he had gone into it with an over-sized ego to begin with. He had already felt he had little to offer. His bravado and wise-ass remarks a front for the fact that he always felt he needed to earn his place, prove his worth. She'd had a front row seat to the fight before and after the blast that ripped so much away. Now this. He was frightened, he was uncertain, and he was rallying around himself to survive. It stirred in her an emotion she could not name. An irritating, scratchy feeling that settled somewhere between anger and heartbreak.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She awoke early the next morning, choosing to leave Clint to sleep until his alarm woke him. It was a short commute to the D.C. office. Phil would be in already and she wanted to catch him before she had to leave. He was easy to find, pacing around his desk as usual. The man seemed to think better on his feet. A file was in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. She leaned into the door-frame, her hair falling in red waves around her shoulder. "Morning Coulson."

He looked up, stopping in place, "Good morning. Heading out?"

"In an hour."

"Okay." He looked back to the file a second, his mind not completely free of its grasp. "You ready?"

"I would be more ready if I had Barton with me."

"Natasha."

"Coulson. I know."

"You know?"

"He asked you."

"What?"

"Don't play stupid. You're shit at it. He asked you to keep him off missions and you agreed."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Why? Natasha he came to me. He asked me to give him some time. What was I gonna do?"

"And you didn't tell me."

"He came to me in confidence." He chose to bypass the fact that Clint was dealing with very real, very debilitating anxiety, and how odd it was that his partner seemed unaware of it. "He's trying to keep it contained." He dropped the file on his desk and focused on her, both hands wrapping around his coffee cup, "Are you upset because he's taking himself out for a while or because he didn't come to you? That you didn't see this coming?"

"I'm upset that _you_ didn't come to me."

"Really?"

"We've been a team through this. The three of us. I'm upset that he felt this way, he was going through this, and you didn't fill me in. You didn't fill me in Coulson and I was thinking all kinds of insane things."

"I'm sorry. He didn't want you to know." He put the cup down on his desk.

"We're a team."

"We are." He walked towards her.

"He needs to keep moving forward."

"He does, but not right now. Right now he needs to stop and face this next hurtle. He needs to gather some reserves." He put his hand on her arm, "He's been pushing himself non-stop. You've seen it, you know, and it's caught up with him. He needs time and we have to be okay with that. He needs us to be okay with that."

Her only thought was that she agreed, she knew in her gut that he needed this. She also knew she would have been okay with it from the start if they had only brought her in instead of shutting her out. She dropped her head a second before looking back up, face still. "Bring me in next time."

"There won't be a next time. Anyway, you wouldn't really want me to go against his wishes." he dropped his hand away, and slid it into his pocket.

"No." She searched his features a moment, "Did you know he's trying to protect me as much as take care of himself?"

Coulson nodded, "It's clear enough."

She watched him, waiting for more, but was disappointed in his simple, "It's the right call Natasha. For both of you."

She watched Phil a moment. There was nothing else to say. The discussion had been had without her, as had the decision, but ultimately she agreed. She just didn't like it. She walked out of the office and to her desk in the Special Tasks Division without another word. Sitting down in the barely used chair, her desk being nothing more than a spot to write up mission reports, her eyes went to Clint's own twin across from her. It was still empty and the site made her bristle. Salt in an expanding wound. He should be here.

She waited for a while, hoping he would be in before she had to leave. She searched her desk a dozen times for nothing more than extra time, before writing him a quick note and walking to the flight hangar to suit up. Every step closer to the hangar brought her a step closer to the sharp edged knife she had to become to cut him out her mind for a while. To focus.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Back at his place Clint was just waking up. His alarm clock silent on the nightstand. He stared at the empty bed for a second, remembering that Nat had chosen to move to the couch last night. He took a deep breath and rolled over, his arm seeming to fall across his eyes of its own volition. He moved and stared at the ceiling before taking another deep breath and sitting up, slowly. He looked out the bedroom door and toward the living room where the couch was visible. It wasn't enough to tell if she were still there though. She had a tendency to lean into the back of the couch, squishing her body up against it. I would be impossible to see her from the door.

He stood, stretching while walking toward the bathroom. His hearing aids were sitting nestled on their charging tray, waiting to be cleaned and returned to the receiver wired within his ear. He could sleep in them, and usually did, but he'd had a headache last night and had hoped the change would help.

When he finished his morning routine he headed to the kitchen to make some coffee and prepare an apology that was a little more sincere and less defensive than last nights. She had been right to be upset. They didn't keep things from each other. She had deserved more from him and he was ready to tell her so. But when he came to the living room the couch was empty. The blanket had been folded and left on top of the pillow. There was no note to be seen. No goodbye, no blazing angry blame, no acceptance, she was just gone. "Ah damn it." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Nat." He said to the bedding that remained in her place. "Damn it Barton. You're some idiot" He repeated to himself. He went for his phone but hesitated before hitting the call button. What would he say? Lost as to anything worthwhile he opted to send her a simple text, " _Morning. You want some coffee?"_

It took a few minutes but she came back with, _"Gearing up. Heading out in ten."_

" _They'll wait for you."_

" _Sure. Rest up Barton. You're not sitting on the sidelines forever."_

" _And miss the adrenaline rush of copier jams and wobbly chairs!? Not on your sweet ass."_

" _I'm serious."_

" _You miss me already huh?"_

" _You have no idea. They're sending me out with idiots."_

" _They always send you out with an idiot."_

" _Yes, but an idiot I know."_

" _Stop. It's gonna go to my head."_

" _Should be back in a few days. Seriously, rest."_

" _No problem. That's the current job description. See you in a few."_

He rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling as he put the phone down. He walked away, going about getting ready. Most agents were expected to wear a suit and tie but operatives, like he and Nat, were assigned head to toe black with more pockets than they could ever reasonably use. Especially considering this was the uniform for the base jobs or down time. It made no sense, but neither did Natasha's skin-tight mission gear. They had to take what they were given when it came to uniforms. He dressed and headed for the door when a knock halted his steps. He rolled the surprise off his shoulders, and looked out the door's peep hole.

He stepped back quickly, before looking out again.

"Franny I can see you're looking out here." A man slightly taller, slightly older, wearing a carnival mirror version of his own features stretched long, and lean was standing outside the door, pounding his feet against the step. His brother's voice hammered through the door again, "You gonna let me in or not?"

He debated it. He really did. Barney Barton hadn't been in Clint's life for several years. Not since he was a few months away from seventeen. Not since he had left him for dead, bleeding in the sawdust. For Clint it had been a hard lesson in what doing the right thing can get you. For Barney it was the start of a different life. One that had not involved his, as he saw it, straight as an arrow baby brother.

"Thinkin' about it." He said without looking back out the peep hole.

At first Barney didn't answer. "I get that." He finally said after a prolonged silence.

"You look me up for a reason?"

"Just thought I'd see how my brothers been doin' all these years."

At that Clint opened the door part-way, blocking Barney's entry with his arm. "How I've been doing? Just thought you'd swing by and see how how I've been doing?"

Barney rocked on his heels and shrugged, "Yeah."

Clint watched him, his emotions warring between anger and his overwhelming need to embrace him again. "Shit man," His need won out, "What took you so damn long?"

Barney smiled, "There was traffic."

Clint shook his head and pulled him into the house, "I should break your nose right here, right now..." He looked Barney over. His big brother. The only blood relation he knew of in this world. "...but damn if it's not good to see your ugly mug."

Barney wrapped his arm around Clint, "You too man. You too."

"How'd you find me?" He'd been careful to have as little a paper-trail around himself as possible. It was part of the job. It was also part of who he was now. This living as a shadow.

"Ah, well, you know I still got friends who know things."

Clint pulled away from Barney's arm, crossing his own, and leaned against the wall next to the door. His defenses returned without his thought or approval, "Things like where I live?"

"It's not like they had it on hand. I asked. They found out." He put his hands in his jeans pockets, uncomfortable. His little brother had grown more paranoid since the last time he saw him.

So whatever seedy underbelly contact that Barney used for info hadn't known, but now they did thanks to him, "Oh, good. That's different."

"You worried they'll bother you? Listen, they won't. Not if they know I'm...that I'm your brother, man. They won't."

"I'm not worried. I can handle myself, trust me. I just don't like people knowing where to find me before I know they're looking."

"I've heard."

"That so?"

"Yeah. Word is you're takin' names and makin' enemies for some secret government shit." Barney smirked, "Still think you're fightin' for truth, justice, and all that bullshit huh Francis."

He mocked, and it hit Clint square in the gut. Barney had cut him down to protect thieves and thugs. His only saving grace, his only comeback from the fallout of Barney's betrayal had been what he'd given everything for, absolutely everything. The life his brother mocked now so easily. "I don't know. You still trying to murder family Barn?"

He flinched like he'd been slapped across the face, "Ouch. Shit man, that hurts."

Clint shook his head and walked away, his hand running along his hair for a second, "Hurts? You got no idea Barn. You think it hurts half as much as finding out your brother sabotaged your act, that you left me to-"

"How long have you known?"

He shrugged, "They showed me the shredded rigging Barney. I've always known."

"Fra-"

Clint continued, Barney's flippancy, his ignorance sparked a bit of that old anger, "You didn't think anyone would put two and two together? Or you just didn't think I'd be around to call you on it? You have any idea what happened after you left?" He walked further away, turned his back on Barney for a moment. Catching his breath and pulling back his emotions. When he spoke again his voice was calmer, "I was on my back for a month, a month of not performing, a month of no ticket sales. I was a burden Barn and they showed me the door without a look back. I left a broken snitch and you were a thief." He looked at Barney and scoffed, "Bartons to the fucking end."

"Shit I understand that you're angry. That's why I'm here. To make amends. You know, to say sorry. I'm not trying to start somethin'."

"He make it worth your trouble?"

"What?"

Clint laughed bitterly, "Swordsman man. Did he make cutting me down worth what he was offering or not?"

"No. No way in hell he could have."

Clint walked away, over to the couch, and sat down beside the abandoned blanket and pillow. His arm wrapped around them slightly and he could swear he felt Nat's warmth still trapped in the fold. "Twelve years Barney. That's a long time to not see your brother. A long time to think he wants you dead." His last words hung in the air.

Barney wanted to explain that if he hadn't sabotaged Clint's rigging someone else would have got to him and with potentially far worse consequences, but in light of the moment he settled for a weak, "I never wanted that and I'm here now. That enough?"

Clint took his older brother in as Barney looked away and paced. He hadn't realized how much he was missing him until he was right in front of him. It ached, this distance between them. He needed Barney despite how much it burned to think of what he had done. He had always needed Barney, his big brother for a time in more than just years but deeds. Barney had saved him so many times he'd stopped counting. So many times he was there between Clint and whatever new monster life seemed determined to throw their way. There had always been Barney. Until there wasn't. Now, when circumstance had brought him to his knees, to have his big brother walk back into his life felt like a much needed reprieve. Something good after nearly two years of struggle. he didn't have the anger left to push him away. "It's just unexpected. It's a lot to..."

Slowly Barney walked over to the other chair by the fireplace but didn't sit, "I know." He rubbed his hand across his bearded chin, "I really am sorry man."

"Yeah. Me too."

"For what?"

"I don't know." Clint cursed his consistent knee-jerk apologies.

Barney watched him a beat, "Okay."

Clint looked away, out the window while asking, "So what are you doing nowadays?" They had to start somewhere.

Barney smiled and sat down, legs spread wide, "Nothin' good. Nothin' you want to know about."

Clint frowned, "You should stop."

"What and become a..." Clint gave him a look that made him think twice about going back there and he settled for, "Yeah, maybe I should."

Clint leaned back, settling into the chair, "You okay? Otherwise I mean. You're not coming here cause you have a month to live or something right?"

"Fit as a fiddle. Just missing my brother." He looked around the spare room, "Not a lot going on in here."

Clint shrugged, "I like to keep it simple. You look thin."

"There's simple and then there's empty Frannie."

Clint laughed, "You into interior decorating now Barn?"

"Just trying to make conversation." It was his turn to shrug.

Clint watched, thinking to himself of all the times they'd shared, the good and the bad. He conceded, "I don't collect a lot of stuff."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yeah, seems like you have a pretty cozy life here. Why not?"

"I don't want any. What d'you know about my life anyway?"

"Nothin', I just...okay." Barney looked around. He knew a dead end when he reached it.

Clint watched him a moment. He's just trying to connect, open up little, he told himself before admitting, "I'm not here often."

"Work?"

"Yeah."

Barney nodded before tilting his head toward the picture of Clint and Natasha, "Your girl?"

"You could call her that but I wouldn't to her face." Clint smiled at the thought.

"Serious?"

"It's not a joke."

"Nice." Barney dragged the word out to annoying effect, "She comin' by?"

"No."

"That your Harley out front?"

He watched as Barney began to fidget, bouncing his knee, and glancing at the bike. His simple reconnect was starting to feel like something else, "Yeah, Barney that's my bike. Are you...what is this?"

"Just trying to get to know my baby brother again." He raised his hands, palms exposed.

Clint took a deep breath. Trusting Barney was proving to be a challenge. He oozed snake oil and hidden motives, but he had to try. "I don't have a life outside of work Barney. That _woman_ is my partner, the only other person in this world I trust to have my back, but yeah, we're more. At least we're trying. I drive a bike because it takes up less space and if I need to fly it somewhere that's easier too. I don't have a lot of stuff because I don't want a lot of stuff. I'm not here enough and it's just more to lose next time I'm relocated. This is just a place for a bed. Anything else I can answer?"

Barney stopped bouncing his knee for a second and stared him down before a smile lit his face, "You gotta lighten up."

"This is what you get. I am who I am."

"Yeah well...seems...sparse, all around, this life you got goin' on Franny."

"It's not. So what's with you? What are you doing...that you can admit to that is?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing going on or nothing you can admit to?" His smile was fading.

"Take your pick." He raised his chin defiantly towards Clint, but it was a wasted defense. Clint wasn't making personal judgments.

"There's gotta be something you can give me. Where you living? You got someone...something. You doin' okay?"

"I'm fine and nope, nobody, just me and I make a point to not settle one place for too long." He paused, thinking, "I had a dog once. A few years ago."

"A dog huh." Clint leaned back in the seat, his arm found the stacked linen again, and he gazed at it. If you had asked him yesterday what he would do if he saw him again it would begin and end with a fist and a broken nose. But here, now, staring at him he only wanted his big brother back, he was finding he _needed_ him.

He finally looked back to Barney who had grown quiet, watching him. His own thoughts a tangle. Both men guarded but trying in their own way. "Breakfast?" Clint asked.

"Nah. You got a beer?"

"It's seven in the morning."

"Is that a no?"

"No."

"Great. I'll take two."

"Barney."

"Francis."

"I really wish you would stop calling me that."

"It's your name."

"No. It's my middle name."

Barney shrugged, "It's what dad always called you."

"Dad was an asshole and you know why he did it."

"You like it."

"I fucking hate it Barn, I can't stress it enough. I would legally have that name removed if it was worth the trouble."

Barney nodded, not feeling nearly as adamant about the whole thing as Clint, "Sooo...beers?"

Clint watched him a beat, "You drink at seven often?"

"I drink when I can."

"Not here."

"Why you have the damn beer if they're not for drinking!?"

"Not at seven in the god damn fucking morning Barn!"

Barney stared him down. He knew what he was thinking. The unsaid accusation. _You're just like dad_ , flashed through his mind a scorching neon red. "I'm nervous is all."

"Find another way to deal with it."

"Yeah. Fine."

"I'm not trying to be a dick."

"Yeah."

"It's seven a.m. is all."

"Yeah." Barney shrugged. He'd been up all night getting here. The time seemed irrelevant to him but he wouldn't push. Not about this. Not with Clint.

Clint shifted, "I have to go to work."

"Okay."

"You'll stick around? I'll see about getting back early."

"Alright."

With that Clint left. He'd met up with Phil, got the rundown of the day, did as much as he could and then took some personal time. Given the state of things Phil wasn't likely to question why once he noticed his absence. The upside, if you could call it that, of getting yourself blown up by high tech shit on the company's time (and shoulders) was that those in charge seemed willing to step aside for your wants and needs. Not that he ever used it, but it was clearly there, and today seemed like as good a time as any for the one-time use he would allow himself. He was so distracted he never noticed the note from Natasha on his desk.

Phil saw him as he was heading out, and as he was returning just after the noon hour. "Leaving already?"

He stopped mid-step to look at the slightly older agent, "I got, uhm, personal business."

"Personal business?"

"Apparently there's a whole world that has nothing to do with SHIELD."

Phil watched him, ignoring the jab and squinting in the sun, "You'll be in tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

Clint nodded and started to walk away when Phil stopped him in his tracks, "They'll land in a few hours."

"Who?" He realized exactly who Coulson had meant as soon as the question left his mouth and was mentally slapping his hand to his forehead.

"Natasha and her team. They'll be landing in Lisbon in a couple hours."

"That landing. Got it."

"Hawkeye." _focus_

"Yep." His lips became a single line.

"You good?"

"Yeah, for sure. Yes."

"You want company?"

"Nope." He could see Coulson's growing concern and added, "I'm good. It's good. It's just...personal."

Phil nodded. "Okay."

"See you tomorrow."

He continued to watch Clint, "You're sure everything is alright?"

He stumbled through an awkward, "Yeah, oh yeah. Absolutely." Before pulling it together and landing with a solid, "Fine."

Phil frowned, "For some reason you're not really convincing me."

"You're just a natural skeptic Coulson."

"Professional hazard." Phil found himself half grinning, half frowning. It was an odd non-committal expression only he seemed to pull off. Though Clint was learning.

Clint grinned, "Keep an eye on Nat."

"Call me if you need anything." Phil walked into the building while Clint walked to his motorcycle. When he got home he found Barney digging in his fridge. "Hey."

Barney looked up and over his shoulder, "I didn't hear you come in."

"I'm quiet."

"That's for damn sure. You're also out of beer." He closed the fridge door and turned around, leaning against it, arms crossed.

Clint shrugged, "Shit happens. Thought you weren't going to drink until later?"

"No. You told me not to drink this morning. It's afternoon. It's later. I drank."

"I'm hungry. You hungry?"

"Sure."

"You like Chinese?"

"Sure."

"Golden Panda it is." Clint grabbed his phone, snatched a menu off the fridge, and walked out of the room. Barney watched him walking away and waited until he came back, phone down. "You got a slight limp Francis. That from..." _when I sabotaged your act and let you slam to the sawdust like a bird with clipped wings._

Clint shifted. All this time since the roof collapse and his knee still remained stubbornly stiff when the weather was just right. He bypassed the question. He didn't want to talk about it. Not with Barney. Not right now. "No."

Barney looked him over skeptically, "I didn't notice it this morning. It happen when you're tired?"

"I don't know Barney. You like Sesame Chicken?"

"Sure."

"Good. Cause it's ordered."

Barney wasn't quick to switch the topic, but after a few questions and it being clear Clint wasn't going to talk about it, he let it go. "You get fortune cookies?"

Clint grabbed a couple plates out from the cupboards, "Pretty sure that's part of the meal Barn."

"Really? I always ask for 'em."

"You shouldn't."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Barney shrugged, "Okay."

It was Clint's turn to look Barney over. He looked good, older as would be expected, but solid aside from the ten pounds that were lacking from his already lean frame. He chalked that and the well-worn clothes, and hair a month past due for a trim, to lacking finances. He was too well groomed to have completely fallen into the bottle like their dad or any other life destroying temptation that could grip them both so easily. "So what's going on?"

Barney straightened and coughed, "What d'you mean?"

"What made you look me up? Why now? Why after all this time? You doin' alright?" When Barney remained silent he added, "There had to be something. Some reason you looked me up."

Barney glanced down, flicked his nails, and shrugged, "Can't a guy miss his little brother?"

"Sure, but why are _you_ here?" He smiled reassuringly. This wasn't an interrogation. It just called for a story, and if he was in need, an offer.

Barney took in his calm, open body language, "Alright, alright. I saw Sammo."

"No way." Clint straightened with memories of the old carnie.

"You believe it? It's been years and we just happen to be at the same place at the same time. Like some freakin' godsend."

"Where?"

He swallowed, "Ah, he's workin' a show in Warsaw. Just a couple little acts, nothin' big."

"How's he doin'?"

"He's good. Real good. Couldn't stop askin' about you."

"That so."

"Yeah, he gave me, uh..." Barney stood reaching into his pocket and pulled out a coin, flicking it over to Clint who caught it with ease. "He said you'd recognize it."

He didn't recognize the coin itself, but he knew what it was in reference to. A bet lost that Clint had never had the chance to pay up. Taking it as something of an invitation, he smiled and clutched the coin, "Yeah."

"Crazy old man always had his stories."

"That he did." Clint tossed the coin absently and thought back, "You remember the one about Mussolini?"

"Oh yeah. The dinner party he worked. Saw him smoking in the garden all by himself-"

"And just as he was ready to make his move-"

"A messenger came out."

"And stopped him in his tracks. Yeah." Clint smiled, remembering the oft repeated but obvious fabrication.

"Crazy old man. He woulda been a little kid back then." Barney shook his head, smiling.

"Eh." Clint shrugged, "Let him have his tall tales."

"Yeah." Barney looked him over again. He seemed so happy to think of the old man. Would he feel the same if he knew the truth? If he knew what Sam was all about? "He told me I should find you. He said he'd never seen two kids so joined at the hip as us." It was true, at least in part, bypassing the whole why of it.

"Like you said, he was always crazy."

"He sure loved you though." _until he didn't._

"We were kindred I guess."

"I don't know what the hell that means."

"I don't know. Doesn't matter." Clint turned the coin over in his hand.

Barney paused, watching him. He still cared, still felt some connection, some similarities between himself and the old man, and that was a dangerous thing. "He's not a good guy Frannie. Never was."

"Maybe." Clint dismissed the disparaging comment.

He stepped forward, getting closer to Clint's personal space than was wise, "No. No maybe. Sure he was born old but the guy's no kindhearted grandpa, all innocent wild stories, like you think. He's a fuckin' snake in the grass. He's nothin' like you. Nothin'." he nearly poked his finger into Clint's chest.

Clint raised his eyebrows, "Okay."

"Sorry I just...I don't know..." He shifted uncomfortably, stepping back. If he wasn't careful he was going to slip up and say too much. He just couldn't deny his instinct to protect his little brother from others. Clint had always looked up to Sam, Sammo he'd called him, always seeing a kind elder that he'd needed so badly and never what he was. Never seeing the sort of things he was capable of doing. Things that would hurt even those who cared for him and damn it all Clint would let him walk right in his door without question. Like he was family. Like he had for Barney. He swallowed his guilt, "Just, you know, know what he is."

Clint watched him, the grin fading. "No real chance of me running into him or anybody from back in the day Barn is there."

"Shit happens."

"That bad is it?"

"Not like you left a lot of friends back there."

"Only the ones that counted."

"Yeah well, people change."

"You saying I got no friends from back in the day?"

"Yeah." Better to know it than not. Even if the truth hurt.

"Nothing'll make a guy feel as warm and fuzzy as that."

"What did you expect? You left as a rat Francis. They don't forget that kind of thing."

Clint scoffed, "And I paid for it don't you think."

"Yeah, I guess you did but they don't all see it that way."

"How do you see it?" It was all that mattered in the end. The rest of that lot had closed ranks around him back when he had no one, and nothing else. When he was just a kid, broken in body and soul, all they saw was a money horse that wasn't earning. What did it really matter how they thought of him now?

"Live and let live, let bygones be bygones."

"I guess you would." He had to wonder how any of them could justify exiling the one standing up for their pooled income over the one stealing from them? How had they come to vilify him and not Barney?

Barney leaned forward, "You don't gotta believe it but I thought I was doing the best thing for everybody back then."

Clint took a deep breath, and looked up. He didn't really want to hash this out right now but here they were. He looked down at his hands, rubbing them together, "The best thing for everybody." It hurt. It ached to hear it and remember. "And what was best for me just got, what, lost in the details?"

"It wasn't like that. It wasn't. You shouldn't have made it that high before...You were too god damn whip thin and fast. Damn it you were up there before I'd even blinked. You never should have been up that high before..." He rubbed his hand through his hair, "Man, it's killed me everyday to think...to think of what I did."

He stared him down for a while. It wasn't an apology but it was about as close as he was going to get. It was about as much as he needed to hear. He honestly didn't need more than seemingly genuine remorse. The current betrayal in his life, and the damage done, were still too near for him to have anything left for this old wound. And he needed his brother so damn much. "It doesn't matter Barney. Not anymore."

"How could it not man?" Barney shook his head and rubbed at his beard again, "It'll never _not_ matter. Worst day of my god damn life." And here he was conniving his way in to another betrayal. He shivered uncontrollably at his own cruelty.

Clint watched him, seeing nothing more than an almost apology, a plea for sympathy, forgiveness, absolution. He couldn't offer as much despite his refusal to care about what Barney had done all those years ago. He remained silent. He was trying to keep his head above water. Where Barney wanted him to go was an angry, sucking whirlpool in boulder-filled water. That way lead to the breath steeling panic that had wrenched him from field work. He backtracked in the conversation, "So why did Sam really send you this way?"

"What do you mean?" Barney could feel the sweat instantly pool at his back despite the abrupt change in topic.

"Why'd he encourage you to come reconnect if he's no friend of mine, or yours apparently?"

"Crazy bastard cares in his own way I guess." He watched Clint not buying it and tried to salvage the lie, "It's not like he bought me a ticket and sent me on my way. He just made the suggestion." He smiled, "Man you are paranoid. They train that into you or you come by it naturally?"

"Chalk it up to experience." The mild jab noted, "You're just putting off a weird...you're just making me suspicious."

"I don't think you need any help with that."

"Maybe, but you're sketchy as hell Barnes."

Barney waved his hand and leaned back, "True."

"Not helping yourself."

"At least I'm honest." He tried to smile but it never made it to his eyes as he looked around, "Your girl coming by?"

"You asked that already." Clint rubbed the back of his neck, thinking of Nat.

"Oh yeah." Barney nervously grinned, "More for us."

Clint took a deep breath, slapped his hands together and stood, "I'm gonna grab some beer. There's a shop around the corner. You wanna come?"

"Absolutely." He walked toward the front door, Clint walking slowly behind him. Thinking. Remembering when they were kids sneaking out of one foster house after another with the cupboard liquor. Ready to drink till they passed out, hidden under any bridge they could find with the weakest of creeks babbling across their bare toes. Their shoes abandoned in the gray Iowa clay. It was an escape and a reconnection to the past even then. Why in the hell they ever wanted to reconnect with their past then, or now, was beyond Clint, but need rarely makes sense.

It was a quick walk to the store and back, and they returned just in time to meet the delivery driver at the door. They paid, and slipped into the house, a bag each tucked beneath their arms. Barney held the one that contained beer only, despite his protests for something harder.

Clint dropped the delivery bag on the coffee-table as he passed it and followed Barney to the kitchen where he was putting their drinks in the fridge. He snagged two beers, popped them both, and handed one to Clint. Holding it up, "To family."

Clint clinked his bottle against Barney's, "To brothers." and they both took a drink.

They spent the rest of the day reconnecting, talking about old times, current times, and missed ones. Clint never went into what he really did or named the organization he worked for. Nor did he say anything about the past couple of years. About the sonic pulse explosion that had taken most of his hearing and sent the roof he was standing on to collapse. He didn't go into the long recuperation he was just getting to the fit side of or the anxiety that was plaguing him now. It wasn't worth it and for whatever reason his instinct told him to keep Barney at arms length from that truth. Anyway, there was twelve years of missed history to cover. What did the past two years matter in the scope of so much lost time?

For Barney's part he never let on why he was really there. He never showed his fraying nerves or aching conscience. He never told Clint about the bounty on his arm or that old Sammo had offered the info in return for a cut of the reward. He never let on because he was enjoying reconnecting. He was enjoying Clint's company, getting to know him again. In the long run it was selfish, and it was cruel, but even if he acknowledged as much it didn't stop him. Clint was still his little brother and he'd have this time with him before there was no going back. He was still so earnest and good, so fucking genuinely good, it hurt to look at him knowing he had every excuse to be a piece of shit but hadn't. He'd chosen to stand up, to fight back, to push down the monsters instead of becoming one. Barney was proud of him in his way, but he would never be able to get past his own anger and jealousy to say as much.

Instead he did shit like this. He brought his brother close, made him trust him again only to make it logistically easier to bring him down. He held his reasoning tight, his justification for his approaching betrayal, because if he held it up and looked at it he'd have to admit it was shit. This excuse that if he didn't collect the bounty on Clint's arm someone else would. That he would go easier on him than anyone else would. That it was for the best. Lies, all lies, salve for the still bleeding edge of a conscience long ago ripped away.

The hours passed into evening, evening into night. Clint eventually left to pass out in his room, but not until he'd given Barney a hug and a genuine, "Glad you're here."

For Barney there was no sleep to be had. Instead he watched his brother toss and turn. Never waking but never still. He debated what he was doing. He paced across the squeaking floor and cursed himself to hell for his small and shriveled soul. He should have never come. He should never have attempted this. What was he thinking? How could anyone have ever talked him into this? What was he? His contemplation never going far enough to actually consider Clint and the repercussions of his betrayal on his little brother, only himself. When night turned to the faintest edges of morning Barney sat on the couch and bit his nails. All of his self-flagellation was empty, meaningless. As the light spilled into the house once again all he could think was that he would have to act soon or lose his nerve.

His eyes fell on the picture of Clint, the red-head by his side. He was smiling but her joy was more reserved. Clearly she wasn't one for selfies. A fact that had probably made Clint all the more determined to frame and display it. Self-destructive shit that he was. He looked happy. He looked in love. Barney swallowed. Maybe he would send a chunk of the reward Clint's way once he got it. That would be thoughtful. Its what a good brother would do. Right?

He rocked on the edge of the couch and stole a glance toward the bedroom. Clint sat up as if he could feel Barney's eyes on him. "What time is it?" He asked before looking toward the clock on his nightstand. Barney didn't bother to answer and it didn't seem to be noticed by Clint who was already walking toward the bathroom out of Barney's view. Judging by the grimace on his face Barney guessed he had a hangover. Kid doesn't drink enough, he thought to himself.

Five minutes later Clint came back around the corner, rubbing his hand along his ear and down his neck. The limp that was only slight yesterday was a little more pronounced with the muscle gripping stiffness of sleep. "Coffee?" He asked though it sounded more like a proclamation.

"Sounds good." Barney said as Clint silently made his way to the kitchen. The doorway of which was all of six feet from the back of the couch. Being the old house that it was, a thick wall divided the small living room from the small kitchen making a conversation between rooms less interesting or even entirely possible. Barney stood and made his way to where a pale overhead stove light beside the sink was casting Clint's shadow across the doorway. He stopped and waited, watching Clint fill the pot. His archery toned back was to Barney. In nothing more than yesterdays t-shirt and boxer briefs, a scar was visible running down the back of his leg and another, more surgical, ran alongside his knee. It explained the limp, but not the origin. "Had some leg work done?" Barney asked, just assessing his advantages, as much as the thought made him sick to his stomach.

Clint didn't respond. He was staring out the small window above the sink that looked out to a small side path and neighboring brick wall with ivy gripping at the mortar. It wasn't until water was running over the lip of the pot and onto his hand that Clint seemed to come around. He dumped a little out and walked over to the Coffee maker, catching sight of Barney as he did. "You sleep?" He asked.

"Little." He lied. Clint didn't respond as he dumped coffee grounds into the machine. Barney watched and asked, "You?"

"Eh." Clint grumbled as he walked over to the fridge and searched for breakfast. "Eggs?" He asked as he pulled the carton out for himself and walked back to the stove,

"Sure." Barney nodded.

Clint grabbed a pan from the small ceiling rack, flipped it as he placed it on the stove-top, and cracked a few eggs. For a split second Barney saw a six year old Clint standing on a chair to make himself some breakfast because no one else would and he was too determined, too self-reliant to go hungry. Barney shook the thought away. Sentimental bullshit like that was going to make this impossible.

Across from him Clint was slipping a spatula under the eggs to test them. Barney looked him over again, his eyes falling back to the scarred leg when Clint shifted his weight from it. "So what happened to your leg?"

Misunderstanding what he had said, Clint asked, "Over easy work for you?"

It took Barney a second, "Yeah. Good." He walked over and tapped his knee against Clint's. "That from the fall? That why you're not talking to me about it?"

Clint searched his eyes a moment. He could see him weighing his words, before he looked back to the eggs in the pan, "No."

"No?"

Clint jaw flexed and he raised his shirt, unintentionally revealing a number of scars scattered across his torso, as his fingers traced a small line of scar tissue that ran parallel to his spine, "This is from the fall." He dropped his shirt, "The leg's from something else."

"What?"

"Doesn't matter. Work hazard." He took a couple plates down from a cabinet by the stove, scraped the eggs out of the pan, and put them on the plates before turning to barney, "Toast?"

Slowly Barney took the offered plate, "Nah."

"Orange juice is in the fridge and grapefruit if you want it. Sugars by the coffee." He pressed a piece of bread into the toaster and walked over to the small two person table squished against a window by the back door. He took a bite and looked over at Barney, "Sorry. I hate mornings." Mostly because everything hurt in the morning but there was no need to tell his new-found family that bit.

Barney grabbed the toast when it popped up and handed it to Clint on his way to the table. "I'm sorry by the way." He shoved half the egg in his mouth.

Clint frowned, "Let it go Barn. Seriously." He got up slowly and poured a couple cups of coffee before coming back to the table and sliding one in front of Barney, "What's your plans after this?"

"After this?"

"Yeah, you staying in D.C. a while, the states, or what?" He sipped the hot coffee and watched Barney over the brim.

"No, no I, uh, I'm not sure where I'm headed." It was a lie. He was going straight to Warsaw to split his payment.

Clint shrugged, "Well you're welcome to stay here as long as you want. I won't be leaving town for work for a while. Could be nice to catch up, see what trouble we can get into." He grinned.

Barney took a sip and swallowed loudly, "Yeah, yeah maybe."

"Nat...my partner," he nodded toward the unseen picture on the mantle, "should be back in a day or two. You'll like her."

Barney silently drank his coffee and nodded as he held a sip in his mouth. He pushed away from the table, "I uh, I gotta use the-"

"Off the bedroom."

"Thanks." He stood and walked to the bathroom, bracing himself once the door was closed. He had to do it now or he never would. He wanted everything Clint was suggesting, but there was about to be a swarm of vultures at his brothers door if he didn't do this, he told himself once again to ease the guilt. The thought of staying and standing by his brothers side never occurring to him. He rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked out into the living room.

He looked around the room for something to use. He'd heard Clint was some kind of expert mercenary but he didn't have much by way of weapons in his home. Maybe the underworld chain of communication wasn't as accurate as he'd thought. There was hope yet. This could be easy. At least in one way. He continued to scan the room until he noticed the iron hearth tools by the fireplace. He picked up a poker and bounced the weight of it in his hand. It would work, d _amn it._ He took another deep breath as he walked back to the kitchen, poker hidden by his side. He shut out every thought or feeling within him that was railing against what he was about to do.

Clint didn't look up as he walked over to the table but caught his shadow and started to say, "So I was thinkin-" When Barney swung the poker towards him. His reflexes quick, Clint blocked him and stood, pushing him back against the opposite wall. "What the h-" Barney kicked him in the scarred knee and Clint crumpled a second. It was just long enough to open him up for another swing of the poker. This time he couldn't stop it, but shifted so that it landed across a well muscled part of his back, and braced himself for the blow. Quickly Barney swung again, landing the poker across his shoulder, as Clint turned to sweep his feet out from under him. When Barney hit the floor he was on top of him, sitting on his stomach, pinning the arm with the poker to the floor. He slammed his hand down into the floor several times, loosening his grip on the wrought-iron rod. Below him Barney reached up and pulled a drawer from the cabinets above them. The heavy drawer and its contents slammed into Clint's back and showered around them. Taking advantage of the momentary disorientation Barney grabbed Clint's elbow and wrenched, sending Clint forward, as he rolled out from under him.

Clint stood and backed toward the living room. "You don't wanna do this Barney." he said, hands in fists as he continued to back farther away. Fearing he was going for a weapon Barney lunged forward, knocking Clint to the ground.

Clint's breath was knocked out of him but when it returned he growled and punched Barney square in the jaw. Barney's vision clouded, and his mouth filled with the copper taste of blood, as he swayed. Beneath him Clint rolled over and slid away, but his scarred knee came into reach and Barney came around enough to squeeze and twist it again, sending Clint reeling from the pain for a moment. He took advantage of the lapse and crawled up and over Clint's legs pinning them to the floor, hitting Clint repeatedly around the ears. Through the punches Clint reached up, felt for his mark, and squeezed Barney's throat, pulling him down and forward. Panicking, Barney scooted back as he fought off Clint's grip.

Clint let go and stood, stepping away from Barney, watching. When Barney stood Clint grabbed him again and threw him into the couch, pushing against him, pinning his arms down, "What the hell are y-"

Barney threw his head forward, the crack was audible as their foreheads smacked together. Clint stumbled back and Barney reeled on the couch. He grabbed his forehead, "It's for your own good Franny."

Clint was leaning forward, holding his head that was bleeding at his hairline, but raised his hand and said, "Shut. The. Hell. Up. Barn."

"Yeah." Barney stumbled over to the fireplace where there was still a wrought iron hearth shovel. He grabbed it and walked back to Clint as he bounced it in his hand. "I'm guessing you won't believe me if I tell you I love you man."

Clint looked up, saw the shovel, and braced himself. "Go to hell."

Barney shook his head, "Already there."

He swung the iron and Clint easily dodged the blow, but the split-second his back was turned Barney slammed the shovel handle into his spine, sending Clint to his knees. It only took another second of him trying to stand for Barney to come at him again. The sharp end of the shovel came down on his shoulder, cutting through tissue this time. Clint howled and rolled over, stopping the next blow before it landed. He pushed the shovel handle up and slammed into Barney's collarbone. He followed that with a quick kick that pushed Barney back, stumbling into the far wall.

Clint stood and looked at the blood now streaming down his arm, his arm that was quickly going numb in waves between the searing pain, before looking at his brother. The Barney of yesterday was gone. He was looking at nothing more than a predator staring down its prey.

"I got a job to do Frannie." He flipped the hearth shovel from hand to hand, "and I plan on doing it."

"Your work ethic is...real….inspiring Barn." He breathed heavily. "You here to wipe me out?"

Barney nodded, "Just the arm."

"Same thing." He squared his shoulders and stared Barney down, "Good luck trying."

Barney lunged forward, swinging, but Clint blocked him and sent him to the floor. He grabbed Barney's shirt, wadding it in his fist, his left hand raised, ready to punch, but he stopped himself and said "Get out. Get out now before you can't."

Clint's damaged arm trembled as he tried to hold onto Barney's shirt, and Barney could feel it. "I love you Francis." He used Clint's weakness, grabbing the edges he could reach of the bleeding wound, and wrenched.

Clint smashed his teeth together, refusing to make a sound in response to the pain that shot through his arm. Instead he used it to punch Barney hard enough that his head bounced off the floor and he was still for a moment. Clint stood and stumbled over to the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame. He glanced down at his arm, rolled his shoulder, and flexed his hand through the pain. Everything was working despite the sticky blood that now covered most of his arm and the pins and needles sensation in his fingers and elbow that told him they were on the edge of numb. On the floor Barney was sliding the handle of the shovel into his back pocket, unnoticed.

Slowly he sat up, rubbing at the blood coming from his nose that was now joining the blood already coming from his mouth. He smiled at Clint before he stood, and raised his hands, "Alright. Alright. I'll leave. Just let me grab my stuff."

"Forget about your shit. Get out Barney." He turned around. His arm was pulsing now and he was feeling lightheaded.

"Sure." He walked closer to Clint who stepped forward. "The doors behind you asshole."

"Yeah." Barney said as he grabbed the bookcase next to Clint and pushed it over, relying purely on adrenaline. The large piece slammed into Clint, sending him to the floor. The books and copper bookends showered down around him. Barney took advantage of his awkward position as he tried to get out and brought the shovel down on him. He slammed it into his shoulder again, and again, and again. He avoided using the sharp end as much as he could. Growling as he pushed away his humanity to do the task before him.

When Clint stopped fighting, stopped trying to block the blows, he stumbled back, dropping the shovel, sniffling. In front of him Clint was still, so still he barely seemed to be breathing. He could see he had missed his shoulder and arm more than once when blooming welts began to rise on Clint's chin, cheek, and temple. His hair was turning dark where blood was beginning to pool.

Barney breathed heavily as he backed away from his younger brother. Now that it was done some of his conscience returned. He wiped his burning eyes to focus and snap a picture. He needed evidence of the damage done or this was all for nothing.

He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes dry before reaching down to pull Clint's pinned legs out from under the bookshelf. Once he was clear he lifted him off the floor and dragged him to the couch. "You'll be fine. You're gonna be alright." He kept repeating over and over again, to ease his own guilt as it settled deep into his belly. He stepped away from the couch and over the mess they had made on his way to the kitchen. He grabbed a bag of peas from the freezer. "It's not that bad. Not that bad." He repeated to himself, rubbing at his sore jaw, as he returned to Clint and looked over the arm that was already swelling. The skin around his shoulder was puffy, red and angry, soaked with blood where it was lacerated. In some places pale pink shown, a smooth seashell in a red tide-pool, exposed bone. The rest of the arm was mottled with varying shades of blue and red. He turned in a circle, hand over his mouth, and pushed the bile down that was rising in his throat before laying the frozen bag on the worst of the damage.

This had been the plan. He tried once again to convince himself he was saving Clint from some over-eager punk, but he couldn't convince himself of that anymore. Not right now. Not looking down at the destruction he had caused, again. "Fuck me." He said as he turned away, looking out the window at the empty street.

In his peripheral the red-head in the picture stared back at him relentlessly. He walked over, and flipped the frame down. He held onto the mantle, dizziness washing over him from the fight, and the horror of what he had done. He tried to shake it off and glanced out the window again. He had to leave. He had to get out of here. It was still early, the sun had only just broken free from the horizon. He could make a silent exit if he left now.

He looked toward Clint, still out on the couch, unmoving. The bag of peas a pathetically inept, half-assed, attempt at first aid. He walked over to him and lingered for an uncertain moment before he grabbed his jacket and went out the door. Gently letting the door click behind him. Head down he made his way back to the train station. No one saw. No one knew he was there. He had come and gone a phantom and left his brother in his wake, while Clint's phone buzzed unnoticed on the nightstand.

A simple message appeared on the screen, _G_ _oing smoother than expected. Should be home in a day or so._


	2. Chapter 2

**The Devil You Know**

Part 2

By: GalInTheMoon

 _Sorry about the long wait. Thank you for your patience._

 _Guest reviewer: Thank you! Barney is pretty close to evil here, but he may have just disgusted himself enough to at least try to be a better man._

 _Lee: I am so happy to see you back!_

 _Eloshazzy: Hope you like where this is going ; )_

 _Thank you also to everyone who faved and followed. I appreciate you all so much._

 _This two-part story is looking more like a three-plus. Hang in there. Natasha returns next time._

 ** _*That night_**

Slowly the world was pushing in. He tried to open his eyes. Tried to grab onto that single thread of consciousness. He knew this feeling. He had been here before. He'd floated in this contradictory heavy weightlessness before. He was at once light as air yet heavy as a stone. He'd lost too much blood.

He had to move. He had to wake up. The attempt was met with pressure on his chest. Someone was holding him down. "Barn..." He wasn't sure if the name escaped his lips or merely blazed across his thoughts. He struggled for the briefest of seconds before Phil's face appeared above him, breaking through his muted panic.

"Hawk, be still." His eyes followed Phil's lips out of instinct more than need.

"Couls-." He tried to raise his head but again Phil held him down.

"Don't move."

Coulson went from looking at him to watching someone or something outside of his line of sight. He was suddenly shifted and the movement sent a lightening bolt of sharp pain through his entire body. He clenched his jaw in response, a grunt involuntarily escaped his lips.

"Sorry." A voice he didn't recognize came from the edge of the world.

"Can you give him more morphine?" Coulson asked the voice floating in the ether. Clint caught only the one word, morphine, and it made his stomach turn. No more. He wanted no more. He could feel it sitting atop the blood loss, piggy-backing, suffocating. Above him the conversation continued without his input or invitation. He closed his eyes.

"He's at the limit. I have to get clearance for more."

"Do it then." Authority laced every syllable of Phil's words.

Clint held his breath as he dared to open his eyes again, and said, "I don't..." He licked his lips. They were so dry, "don't need it."

Phil looked back down at him, "Trust me you want it Barton."

"No, m'fine." As long as they didn't move him he didn't feel a thing, but the dark was creeping back in. He was going to pass out, "I'm gonna...gonna..." What was he trying to say? It didn't matter.

"Stay with me."

"So much...so much for personal time." He joked but the words came out slurred and disjointed.

"It's alright." Phil put his hand on his chest.

Phil hadn't understood him and it seemed to give the darkness more determination to pull him down.

He clawed back for another minute before he was jostled again and it was more than his already reeling senses could handle. Oblivion tempted him with more persistence and he gladly accepted the offer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Phil watched as Barton went limp, "He's back out." He knew the drill. He knew there would be no fight to bring him back to consciousness. He was out and he would stay out until his body was ready. He thought of the scene at Clint's house, the chaos.

He'd stopped by after being unable to get a hold of him by phone. His instincts telling him something was off about the "personal time" Clint had taken especially considering the debilitating anxiety that had returned to the young agent with such ferocity. He'd wanted to check in on him, just to be certain all was well.

When he had gotten to the house, saw Clint's bike parked, and knocked without an answer he'd peeked in the window. The overturned bookcase, the one he had given him along with many of the books, was in view as was the general disarray. He tried the door and was grateful it was unlocked. He unbuttoned his service pistol and kept his hand on the grip as he slowly entered. He moved quietly through the darkened small space, caught sight of the even darker trail on the floor that lead to the kitchen, and followed. He'd found Clint, face down on the kitchen floor. It seemed clear he was trying to get to the phone that rested on the counter above him. Several missed calls were flashing on the screen. He had been there for hours. He had leaned down beside him to check his pulse before a quick search of the bedroom proved they were alone.

Pistol put away he dropped to one knee beside Clint. It wasn't until he'd rolled him over that he understood where the bloodtrail had come from. The arm that had been pinned beneath him was now on display. Devastation: It was the only word that described what he was looking at. His right arm was swollen, discolored, and bent at odd angles. It was nothing like the fine-tuned instrument Barton had forged it into. His neck, chin, and temple had also taken some hits. Lacerations crossed here and there amongst the mottled skin.

He swallowed, mashed his teeth together, and leaned against his training to force himself to focus with a clear head. He pulled his phone from his pocket. There was no calling 911. Situations like this were handled internally. He would have to call in a SHIELD team; Medical first, agents later. Whatever had happened to Barton would be managed, investigated, and justice dispersed by SHIELD alone.

Once the call was made he dropped to sit on the floor beside him. His hand rested on Clint's good shoulder, "I'm here kid."

He wanted to try to rouse him, to get some response, some sign of life, but looking at the damage done, being unconscious seemed a blessing he would not take from him. His slow, unsteady, pulse would have to be a terrible substitute for enough.

Then overlapped now and he caught himself laying his hand on Clint's undamaged shoulder just as he had twenty-some minutes ago on the cold kitchen floor. He looked up at the medic, suddenly back to the present. He met Phil's eyes and said, "Almost there Sir."

All he could think was he was wrong, so wrong. They weren't even close.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Barney watched Warsaw approach as the plane began to land, his guilt growing in size with the structures below. Here was where the plan had been conceived and where he would receive his blood money. As the plane's landing gear hit the ground he lurched with his guilt as much the jolt of impact. He looked around the cabin. Could anyone see the shame that felt like it was oozing from every pore? No one looked his way. No one saw. His world quaked in solitude, silent, and unknown. He wiped his face and stood, following the slow exit of his fellow passengers.

As he walked toward the terminal, posters of Poland's beauty were on either side of him. In the last one, just as he caught sight of Sam waiting up ahead, Clint's face reflected in the glass of one of the pictures. Bloodied and bruised, his brother watched him. He jumped, bumping into a woman beside him, "Sorry." He glanced back at the poster. It was a serene landscape, trees and flowers in bloom along a ridiculously perfect country road, nothing close to the nightmare he had seen moments before. "Shit." He rubbed his hand through his hair, "Shit."

The woman beside him frowned. Never one to apologize, he returned her offended look.

Up ahead Sam hunched over a walking cane that he'd never truly needed until now that his back was arched from its overuse and the weight of age and time. He scanned the crowd and raised his chin once Barney made eye contact. He shifted from foot to foot and asked once the younger man was close, "How did it go?" He slapped his back as if he were asking about the most innocent of tasks, a hesitant smile on his face. "You look a little bruised my boy."

Barney rubbed at his forehead where a small knot had formed, obscured by a wine stain bruise. The bruise had a purple mate beside his mouth, and on either side of his neck. While a few bloomed unseen beneath his shirt, across his back and torso. "It's done." He moved past Sam, heading for the exit, his carry-on the only belongings he'd brought with him.

"You get the proof?" Sam asked as they began to walk out of the airport.

"Yeah I got your fuckin' proof." He sniffed, his jaw clenching, his conscious growling at the cold indifference.

"Good." Sam was nearly salivating at the prospect of the millions they were about to make.

Barney took his phone from his pocket, but Sam stopped him, "In the car. In the car." He glanced around.

"Sure." Barney put it back in his pocket where it felt as if it weighed as much as the world itself.

They walked in silence across the roof-top parking lot to Sam's waiting car. It had begun to rain and they shook the water from their shoulders before getting inside the beat-up hatch-back. Sam took out a pack of cigarettes as soon as he was sitting, slamming the car door as he threw his walking stick in the back and pulled a cigarette from the pack with his weathered lips, fingers trembling. He handed the pack to Barney who took one with his own shaking hand. They lit up, "Show me." Sam said, waving his line-crackled palm at barney impatiently.

Barney pulled his phone back out from his pocket and brought up the picture of Clint. He stared at it a moment. Taking in the destruction he had caused while swallowing the bile that once again arose in his throat before showing the screen to Sam.

"Oh well done, that should do. That should do." He slapped Barney on the leg, nearly giddy.

He watched the old man a beat before shaking his head and blowing out a billow of smoke, "He loved you, you know that?"

"Loved us both. That's why the money was always going to be ours." Sam smiled.

Barney's face fell for a brief moment as he took in the old man and their shared evil, "Holy fuck man. Holy-"

Sam waved his hand, the cigarette between his fingers leaving a trail of smoke behind it, "You'll feel better once you're paid up."

Barney was dumbstruck by the callousness of the old man's words, "Once I'm paid..." He repeated to no one in particular.

Sam shrugged at the disgust Barney had thrown his way. The rain pounded the car, picking up in intensity, as they pulled away from the airport and made their way over to an empty lot that had been settled on for a meet-up before Barney had even arrived.

It was a silent drive. Both men lost in their own thoughts, thoughts that couldn't have been more different in sentiment or hope. When they pulled in there was no one there and they were left waiting for what felt an endless stretch of time.

The rain continued to pound the car in a growing cacophony of white noise. Despite his racing mind, Barney was exhausted and he found his eyes closing, and his head falling to his shoulder, only to rise with a jerk at the sound of a familiar voice. _"What took you so long?"_

"What?" Barney looked at Sam who returned his confused stare, "Huh?"

"You say something?"

"No." The old man frowned and they returned to sitting and waiting quietly. Barney leaned his head against the cool glass of the window.

" _Barn."_ It was Clint's voice, clear as day, and it made him flinch. He sat up and looked toward Sam. Had he heard? Had he seen him jump? The old man stared straight ahead. His fisherman hat and cardigan a costume, a disguise to hide the viper beneath the grandfatherly charade. Sam had known Clint since he was just a kid. A nine year old that sat on his knee and gobbled up his tall tales like some kids inhaled candy or begged for pocket change. For Clint it was all about having time with an adult who had the time for him, for Sam it was just about the performance, the eager audience. Even so, could he really feel nothing now?

"You always been like this Sammo?" He threw his burnt up cigarette butt out the window, into the rain, before rolling it back up. He used Clint's nickname for the old man as a little jab, and Sam knew it.

"Life happens kid."

"And you make choices." He wasn't going to let the old man play at being some innocent bystander in his shitty decisions.

"You made yours." Sam retaliated. "Carried that choice out all the way through didn't you, all the way to the bank." Sam smiled and pulled out another cigarette, lighting up.

" _And what was good for me just, what, got lost along the way?"_

Barney watched Sam and his smug smile a second, silencing Clint's words that echoed in his brain while swallowing down the battery acid that licked at the back of his tongue. "Yeah, yeah guess so. Guess I got a lot to apologize for." He looked around the lot, seeing his younger brother everywhere. He squeezed his eyes closed a second until Sam's voice broke through.

"Apologize?" Sam laughed, "There's no apologizing for what you've done kid." He waved his cigarette at the phone sitting in the consul between them.

"I can try can't I? I can fuckin' try." The misery was impossible to hide.

"Sure, sure you try and see where it gets you. His big protective brother and you cut him down. You cut him down _again_." Sam waited a beat for the truth of it to sink in before he continued, "There's no sorry in the world gonna change that." He pointed at the phone as he sucked in and blew out a puff of smoke, "You really that stupid Barton?" Sam picked up the phone and tossed it in Barney's lap. This time the screen came to life and he was staring at the picture of a brutalized Clint. "Go ahead, apologize. I'm sure he'll give you a big hug, rub your back, tell you it's alright. No hard feelings. Maybe he'll even make you a big cup of hot cocoa to go with your sorry." He scoffed, "What a fucking waste."

Finished Sam wiggled into a more comfortable position in his seat, and stared out the window, waiting.

Barney continued to stare at the picture. He remembered their conversations, the hug at the end of the night, Clint's hesitant but willing welcome. His badgering about his drinking that in hindsight was endearing, maybe even wanted. His repeated asking about him and how he was doing. He'd cared for him again that quickly, that easily despite it all, and it made his guilt all the heavier.

He thought of the scars that marred his little brothers body. Some had been there for far too long, inflicted at too young an age, and came with his own memories that burned to think of. There would be more now. Thanks to him. Again. Again, again, again. He'd cut him down for the second time. Sam was right. There was no going back. Something inside him snapped, fell away, broke off entirely and he got out of the car without a word. He ignored Sam yelling at him, he ignored the old mans cursing, and then desperate pleading for the phone and the proof held within. He walked, and he walked. He left old Sammo and all his plans, the path he was on had forked, had split in two and he veered without looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Devil You Know**

Part 3

By: GalInTheMoon

 _Thank you BloodyNib! Nat is here but is the Black Widow? See below ;-)_

 _Rated T for language, violence, and situation._

 ***Two Days Later: Afternoon**

Natasha walked out of the Special Operations wing of the D.C. SHIELD offices. Lisbon had been as smooth if not smoother than expected and she was left with excess energy. She wanted to swing by Clint's and go for a drive out of the city. Maybe a weekend in Shenandoah forest would do them both some good. Well, more so Clint than herself. She would be more than happy to rend her overflowing energy in a weekend trip to New York, but she was thinking of her partner first, and a mountain cabin in the middle of nowhere would do him good.

She was already planning on how she wanted to propose their little escape when she caught sight of Phil entering. He looked unusually frazzled and she stopped, watching as he approached, "Coulson."

He looked up, "Natasha."

She instantly recognized the look on his face. The emotion that sapped the color from his skin, and aged him ten years. She had seen Phil concerned for agents under his command more than once and she had seen him concerned for one in particular. The look he was carrying resembled more of the latter, "What is it? What's wrong?"

Phil took a deep breath, "Barton-"

When it took him a half second too long to get to the point, she shifted impatiently, "Say it Phil."

"He's in SHIELD med..." When she took a breath to speak he put his hand up to stop her, "He's okay, he'll be okay. His arm is..." Phil shook his head, frowning, "We were just starting to get whispers of a contract out on his arm but I didn't think it-"

"What are you talking about? What happened?"

"A hit, we think. He was at his house-"

"When?"

"Uhm..." He paused, frowning, "I found him yesterday…day before…?" He was still frowning, uncertain. Time was sporadic and unreliable in the chaos.

"You found him."

Phil frowned, "He'd lost a lot of blood Nat."

"And his arm?" She nudged.

Phil shook his head and looked down at his shoes a second.

"Shit." Natasha turned, pushed her hair back, and looked back to Phil. He watched her a minute. They had come so far. They had all fought for Clint's return in one way or another. For it to come to this when he was just starting to find his feet again was infuriating and completely heartbreaking. He could follow her train of thought easy enough and took another deep breath before nodding at her. In return she shook her head and looked away, her jaw clinching against the anger swelling within her, as much as the ripping sadness. "Do we know who?"

"No and Clint's not talking. By the looks of his place he knew the person. He let them in, took the afternoon off, had breakfast with them."

"A woman?" She couldn't help asking despite her stubborn determination to not care. Barton had been a known womanizer when they met. Despite what her heart wanted to believe, a tiger doesn't change its stripes. And yet, even still, it wasn't like him to put desire before the job.

"I don't know. Not yet." Phil looked remorseful. More than aware of their not-so-hidden relationship and of Clint's history.

She nodded. It was a possibility she would deal with later. Clint was her partner, her friend. They had never spoken any promises to each other beyond that. It stung to think of him with another woman behind her back, but in the scope of the moment him stepping outside of a relationship that she had never openly allowed to be more than partners with benefits was the least of her concern. Someone had invaded their little bubble, had spilled blood in their shared sanctuary, had tried to bring her partner down. That someone would feel the full force of the Black Widows vengeance without a trace of mercy. "I'm going to go see him."

"Give me a minute and I'll come along." Phil caught the look on her face and rethought his decision to ask her to wait, "Go. I'll catch up."

She nodded and left. SHIELD medical was across town in a mundane building on the edge of D.C. It was a structure that you could pass every day and never look at twice. A building whose existence went unnoticed by design, but once you passed the beige characterless entrance's security desk it transformed into a state of the art hospital. It was just one of many such SHIELD Medical buildings spread across the globe. It was where Clint's ear implants had been fine-tuned and surgically implanted; A building Natasha knew too well.

She showed her credentials to the young agent on duty and it was a quick elevator ride up three floors to Clint's room. Her boot heels reverberated off the hushed hallways as she approached his half-closed door. She paused and took a breath before opening it.

His bed was on the right side of the room. The curtain had been pulled around to block view of him from the door, but she knew if Clint could get out of bed it would be open. He hated having any entrance and exit blocked from view. She walked over and pulled it open, "Hey."

He watched her walk the few steps to his bed, "Hey."

She looked at his right arm, wrapped and mounted beside him within a halo of metal and wires. "I go away for a few days..."

He half-shrugged, "I got bored." He was a wreck. Swollen bruises mottled his face and patches of gauze were on his temple, chin, and peeking from the collar of his hospital gown.

"Got a funny way of entertaining yourself hotshot." She sat down beside him. "How you doing?"

He tried to play it cool, "Great. Doing great. Never better. Top of the world." and failed.

"How's the..." She pointed to his covered temple and then made a circle motion around her own ear. She was worried about his implants. All the wiring was within and behind his ears but his temple was too close for her comfort and they had yet to find out how well the seemingly delicate work would hold up to abuse.

"It's fine."

"So what happened?" She leaned into the bed rail, chin on her palm.

"I got my ass kicked."

"Clearly." She raised her eyebrows, "Who?"

"Workin' the case Romanoff?"

She dropped her hand and stared at him a moment. "The _case_? Come on." She looked at his damaged arm a split second, "This is personal. Your battles, my battles remem-"

"Don't." He paused, "Leave it be." _Please._

She leaned back into the chair, arms crossed, "Sure." _Not happening._

"Natasha I'm serious. Leave. It. Be."

"How can I? Who was it?"

He frowned at her, but remained silent. She clenched her jaw. Maybe he didn't want to talk to her but she would damn well push, "It was a hit. Did Phil tell you? Someone put a contract out on your arm and this asshole took it." How could he not be burning for vengeance?

"Guess that ends that, huh. Arm is shit." He looked mournfully over at the limb hidden beside him. He thought of Barney, "Jackpot." and mocked a brother who was no longer there.

Natasha shifted in the seat beside him, "You're really going to protect them?" The words tasted as bitter on her tongue as they sounded in her ear.

"I haven't decided. That alright with you Tash?" He scooted and winced, "Think maybe I can get permission from you and Phil and SHIELD, and every god damn agent combing through my house right now, to sit on this for a day or two? Think I can deal with it on my own for one fucking minute?" He frowned and looked away.

She looked down a second and gently rested her hand on his good arm that lay still on the blanket beside him. She noticed for the first time the defensive bruises that ran in raspberry stripes across the side of his forearm. Clint did not take that many hits easily. He had been avoiding a fight.

She watched him, faced turned away from her still. He wasn't ready for vengeance, or at least he wasn't ready to share it. Maybe he just wasn't ready to talk. Whichever it was it made little difference. She would get nothing from him about who, or what exactly had happened right now.

He looked back at her when she remained silent.

"Alright." She said and tried to move on, "They give you any idea what's going on with the...?" She lifted her chin toward his arm.

He looked over at it and back to her, "Yeah, it's shit."

"Clint-"

He took a deep breath and rubbed his hand through his hair, "Sorry. It's uhm, I don't know. They're talking surgery...surgeries. May be all for nothing." He shook his head. It was the same old same old. He was right back in the muck.

"Same old shit, different day." She expressed the frustration they were both feeling with the very words he would have used.

He watched her, "You ever get tired of this Tash?"

"Of seeing you look like hell? Exhausted." That didn't cover it. It was more than plain exhaustion. It was seeing someone she cared for so deeply get knocked down again and again. It was knowing that right beside her he was in a fight she couldn't help with. He was taking shots she couldn't deflect or prevent. When it mattered most she was helpless. The thought made her want revenge all the more.

"Yeah." He laid his head back on the pillow. "I ever tell you I have brother?"

"No." She waited as he was silent a minute.

"Older." He finally said as he looked down, his eyes scanning over his body, but clearly not seeing what was in front of him. "Just by a few years." He thought for a minute before adding, "Seems like a lot more." before looking away again. He grew silent once again.

Natasha scooted to the edge of her seat, leaning her upper body over the bed. She took his arm again and waited. Her suspensions aroused but she remained quiet, waiting.

"How long since you saw him?" She finally asked knowing it could be a mistake to push if he were about to open up.

He looked at her, "Who?"

"Your brother. How long since you saw him?"

His face became devoid of emotion, "He's dead."

"Oh." She frowned.

His eyes remained empty as he settled back into the pillow, staring at the ceiling, "Think I'll get some sleep."

"Sure." She stood and kissed him before leaving the room. When she stepped out into the hall Phil was waiting. "He's going to sleep."

Phil nodded, "You want some coffee?"

"Absolutely."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Phil pulled out a chair for Natasha before sitting down himself, his hand already wrapping around a warm mug of coffee. Across from him Natasha took a sip from her own cup. He watched her. Here they were again; Two comrades in a war that had raged too long. "How was he?" He asked as he took a long sip that burned his tongue.

"How you would expect. Angry, depressed, all over the map."

"At least he's talking."

"He hasn't talked to you?"

Phil shrugged slightly, "He hasn't been awake much."

"Still." She took another sip, hesitating before she asked, "What do you know about his brother?"

Phil put his own cup down with a slight clink, "Why?"

"He just mentioned him, said he was dead."

"Barney Barton is very much alive."

Across from him Natasha took another sip, frowning. "Barney." She rolled the name around her tongue, "Do you think he would be capable of...?" She didn't want to finish.

Phil took a deep breath and clasped his hands together, his elbows on the table, as he took a minute to come to a decision. He leaned back again after a moment, "Barney was in charge of Clint's rigging back when he was in Carson's. He told you about his act, right?" She nodded, "Barney frayed his line, let him drop and left him for dead, all to protect a ring of thieves Clint was threatening to oust." He shook his head, "I don't know. Could be one betrayal is just reminding him of another."

Natasha leaned back as well, "He never told me."

"He doesn't talk about it." Phil met her eyes, "There is a lot he doesn't talk about."

"I've noticed." She took a deep breath, "So what is Barney now? An assassin? A mercenary?"

"Hardly. He's a small time crook. Nothing more."

"Do you think he's capable?"

Phil raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath before speaking, "It's possible. Clint's not up to his standard self right now, and I doubt he would have much heart in fighting his brother given their history. Or despite it." Phil shook his head, "He did fight back though. We have DNA all over the house." He wrapped his hand around his cup again, frowning, "We'll know soon enough."

"If it was his brother he's not willing to send me, or SHIELD, after him. I don't know if he wants to do it himself or if he wants to just push this all away but he asked me to let it go. And to say Barney is dead..."

"Then we'll let it be."

"Coulson."

"We'll let it be. Let Clint steer this ship for now. We'll pull the investigation back to bare bones. _If_ it turns out it was Barney I'll have him tailed. We'll watch him in every corner he tries to hide. He won't take another breath that isn't seen, noted, and filed. And when the day comes, _if_ , Clint wants to go after him, one way or another, we'll be ready. We'll make it happen or we'll turn a blind eye. Whatever Clint wants."

She shook her head, "You make it sound so simple."

"It's never simple but it's as close as it gets." It was decided and Phil went back to drinking his coffee.

She grinned bittersweet watching him, "I knew Clint had a brother."

"That so?" Phil leaned his head, curious.

"Sure. I saw it within the first week you two pulled me into this business."

Phil grinned sadly as he looked at the dark liquid in his cup. Skirting the sentiment he wasn't ready to delve into, he asked, "You thought for a minute he'd been with another woman, hadn't you?"

She shrugged, "Still possible, anyway, what do I care if he had?" She flicked a sugar packet in the condiment tray. Man or woman she would tear them apart just the same.

Phil stretched his lips into a thin line that resembled a smile and nodded, "What do you care." He mocked, not believing a second of her seeming nonchalance. He looked around, "He's different since you joined you know?"

"I'm not looking to change him Coulson."

"But you have. Back when I first pulled him into all this he liked to make everyone think he didn't care about anyone or anything. Himself most of all. He convinced a few, maybe more than a few, that he was a real asshole."

"But not you."

"Well I got to know him better than anyone. I pulled him into this, out of the one way road he was heading down. He talked to me after a while-"

"Like a brother."

"Maybe. Maybe I don't know what that means. Not really. He talked to me like someone he could trust and coming from Barton that's an honor I've never taken lightly. Kids never been able to trust anyone. He fights the sentiment like some people fight off a swarm of bees."

"I know. I'm still not sure he trusts me."

"He does, after everything, he does. But the down side of being so stubbornly self-reliant is not being able to process with someone else involved. He'll disappear into himself for a while, wrap his head around every angle of whatever he's working on, and come back when he's done. You know it's true. Just give him time."

"I don't know if I..." She looked around before lowering her voice, "Should we? If this was his brother can he even make that call? Is it right to ask him to? After..." She leaned in close, "Phil, if it was Barney I want to track him down. I want to make him beg Clint for forgiveness on his hands and knees. I want him to grovel before I break him into a million little pieces that will mend only enough to ache every time a fucking cloud passes by. So he thinks of his brother on the edge of every storm. So the world is a god-damn open wound."

He looked at her as serious as ever, "Yeah, me too."

"But we'll wait?"

"We'll wait."

"Perfect." She leaned back in her chair and swallowed down more coffee along with her frustration. For once in their relationship she thought Coulson was making the wrong call.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hours later Clint awoke to Phil waiting next to his bed, his legs were propped up on a bedside table and he was half-watching day time t.v. His mind clearly drifting beyond the screen. Clint moved a little, the world was still fuzzy and when he spoke his voice sounded groggy and rough from sleep, "Some serious something they have in this thing." He lifted his hand with the twin I.V.'s.

Phil dropped his legs and looked his way, "Hey. How you feeling?"

"Nothing." He said, adding a shake of his pin-cushioned hand to clarify, "Drugs."

Phil nodded, "Guess that's a good thing." He scooted the chair he was sitting in closer to the bed and leaned forward, "So the team finished at your house. The DNA samples they took will be back in a day or two." He waited. "Any ideas what we'll find?"

"DNA I hope." He tried to sit up, but with his arm immobile beside him, it amounted to nothing and he settled back to exactly where he had been.

Phil nodded, unwilling to push any more than that for now he moved on, "Natasha's going over to straighten up."

Clint frowned, "Don't let her, tell her not to do that."

"She needs to do something."

He dropped his head back on his pillow, "I gotta get out of here."

"Soon enough."

Clint stared at him, "I'd be willing to lose the damn arm to get out of here Phil. I can't do this. I can't fucking be here." He'd spent too long in beds, too long needing help from his friends, from the one person he wanted to lean on him for once and not the other way around.

Phil tried to muster as much stoicism as he could, "But you are here and you don't have any other options but to fight through. Everything else is a waste of your time."

Clint shook his head, "What's the damn point?" He was getting more agitated. "I put everything I had into coming back from...everything, and I'm right back here." He looked around the all too familiar room, "I'm right fucking back."

"And still not alone."

"Ah, damn it. That's half the problem. Fucking lost cause."

Phil shrugged, "I've always sorta liked lost causes."

Clint watched him, "Well congratulations man you picked the biggest loser of them all."

They both grew silent. Phil was deep in his thoughts as was Clint for a minute. They had been here before. They both knew this anger he was feeling, this lashing out, was a stage of recovery. It was a natural tide they would all have to ride until it slowly rose less and less. It would always be there though, waiting on the horizon.

"I'm pulling back the investigation." Phil finally said after a long silence.

Clint looked at him again, "Alright." His anger receded for a moment, replaced with curiosity.

"My eyes only."

Clint continued to watch him, suspicious. "Thanks."

Phil shrugged and they returned to sitting in silence before Clint spoke up again. "It was Barney, Phil."

He clinched his jaw, his temple visibly twitching with the action, "What do you want to do about it?"

"I...I don't know what the hell to do...what am I gonna do? I let him in. You believe that? Let him right the fuck in like some kind of fucking idiot. Just opened the door and walked right into it."

"How could you have known?"

"He is who he is, Phil. _I_ should have known." He looked at the ceiling, "I was just so damn happy to see him." He sniffed and frowned at the impulse. Wasn't twenty-seven too old to need your big brother so damn much? Too old to be so naive and stupid? Hadn't he severed that heart-string some ten long years ago when he hit the ground with enough force to crack his spine? Was that really not lesson enough? Maybe not when weighed against the sixteen years Barney had been the only safe, and constant home he'd known. Maybe home, real or imagined, was just a hard dream to shake.

Phil thought of Natasha's proposition to tear Barney into a million pieces. With Clint's confirmation it was all the more tempting a thought. "You know all you have to do is say the word and I'll make it happen. I'll bring him in. I'll make him face what he's done."

"I don't know. Not yet. I..." He shook his head, "It's just too damn much right now. Alright?" He couldn't know what he wanted, what he was feeling. It was a confusing flurry of emotions that refused to settle long enough for him to distinguish one from another.

Phil leaned forward, his hand rested on Clint's arm a second, "Okay."

Clint shifted, "You should get back to work. The world's gonna fall apart without Phil Coulson keeping it together."

"That's Fury's job. I just do the paperwork." Phil squeezed his arm again, stood, and started to walk away. If he needed time alone he would give him time alone, whether he really wanted to give it or not. He stopped and turned around, loosening his tie "Talk to Natasha. Let her in on this."

 _Let her in_. His words hung in the air as Clint watched the door close behind Phil. How the hell was he supposed to do that?

 _a/n: I know, I know. I so wanted Nat to kick his ass too, but this is just part of a series and in time Barney does pay for all he's done in one way or another (and Natasha never forgives or forgets). It's less rewarding now but hopefully in the big scheme more entertaining. I'm feeling like there will be another part to this. I want to see the coming conversation between Clint and Natasha and also if there are any previously unknown actions by any one of these guys. We'll see._


	4. Chapter 4

**The Devil You Know**

Part 4

By: GalInTheMoon

 _The last chapter is finally here. I've re-written it several times and am still not satisfied (aaaand I keep tweeking it after posting). Any more and it will never see the light of day so I'm putting it out there. I hope you enjoy! As always, thanks for reading!_

Natasha looked around the small house. There was little here to begin with but what was was in total disarray. She tried to lift the bookcase that was turned over in the doorway leading to the bedroom, but it was too heavy. She pulled the remaining items from the shelves and slowly, growling as she tried, to lift the large oak piece. After some effort it was upright again and she began to stack the books on the shelves.

The plated food in the kitchen had grown crusty in the days since the brothers breakfast and she placed the dishes in the sink to soak while she went to work cleaning her partners blood off the floor. She'd be damned if he would come home to this; That he would have to clean any of this up.

The first thing she had done was put away the pillow and blanket left on the couch from her night of sleeping on the couch to make a point. A point she had nearly forgotten in the disaster she had come home to. Nearly, but not exactly. Clint hadn't been honest with her. He had kept his struggles from her. Just like now. Just like always. The man didn't know how to open up, had just begun to try in the wake of the disaster that had made him lean on someone else for once. That was then, this was now, and he felt more unreachable, more distant than ever.

She slapped the cleaning rag to the floor and sat back on her heels, surveying the damage. "Damn it." She said to no one as her eyes began to burn. She rubbed her arm across her nose, "God damn it."

There was too much. It was all too much. Even for the Black Widow, whatever the hell that meant. She was still human after all. Still cared, still hurt, and this, this was pain on a level there was no training for. This was misery of the soul. This cut down to the fiber of her being and blast it all if she would ever say the words but deep down she knew, she knew she loved Clint Barton. She loved and it changed nothing, it helped no one. Life moved within the same indifferent miseries as always.

She stood and walked away from the blood around her. She scanned the living room and noticed for the first time the picture on the mantle turned down. She walked over and lifted it back up, staring. She hated this picture. Hated that he had taken it, hated that he had framed it, and that it sat here every time she came over. His smile glowing while she scowled at the lens. She hated it _because_ she liked it. She liked seeing it here. It made her heart happy without her minds consent that he had framed it, that he smiled while she scowled, that in this (with her and for one blessed moment) he was completely open. It was truth and lies all at once, it was everything they were, and as infuriating as the man himself.

She turned away from the mantle and scanned the house again. Her eyes wandered to the bedroom. The fight hadn't made it this far and it was still as tidy as Clint left it every morning. Fighting chaos was instinctual for him. He'd make the bed the second he was out, wipe out the sink as soon as he finished brushing his teeth, dry the water droplets from the mirror after splashing his face. It was a habit that made anything different stand out, any change to his blessed order look like an eyesore. Anything at all, like the small coin that rested on the nightstand she had never seen before. She walked over and picked it up, turning it in her fingers.

She recognized it instantly as a Polish zloty. She couldn't help but smile. It was a lead. It was something. She carefully lifted it with her shirt hem before placing it in her pocket, undecided if she would let Phil in on this little line of hope or keep it for herself. Coulson may have made himself clear that they would wait on Clint to call the shots but she wasn't entirely convinced. Not that she would go rogue against one of the only people she counted amongst family. But it was nice to feel like she were making a choice, that she had the option even if it were only for five-minutes.

She looked back down at her fingers that had stuck to the edge of her t-shirt as she'd slipped the coin inside her jean pocket, taking in the sticky red blood on her fingertips that must have seeped over the edge of her rubber gloves. She growled and made her way back to the kitchen to wash, choosing to leave the bathroom sink untarnished.

After cleaning her hands she turned in a circle, deciding where to start again, before collecting the little crime scene tabs used to mark spots of interest for photographic evidence and dropped them in a pile by the backdoor. She'd have to bag them along with the couple glasses that had shattered on the floor, the broken furniture, and then of course the large pile of rags it would take to finish cleaning up the place. Her clothes would be garbage too. The knees of her jeans were stained and she would never wear the shirt again. Her sneakers were probably toast. Not that it mattered. Not that any of it mattered. It was nothing in comparison to what her partner had lost. She wiped her nose across her arm, determined to push away the emotion that could stop her progress in its tracks.

She dumped the bucket she had been using and refilled it with fresh cleaner before starting again. They had a unit she could call in to clean this up, but somehow it felt like a betrayal. This was their private

oasis from the world. She couldn't invite anyone else in, not even to save herself from this. She couldn't let anymore people in to see. It was personal now, private. A stage of healing that was not open to cold, curious eyes.

Two hours later she was bagging her clothes and taking a shower before leaving the house with a fresh wardrobe and a new-found determination to get some answers from Clint. He knew who did this. He drank with them, ate with them, and placed their coin on his nightstand. He was protecting them now and she needed to know why. She needed to know who. She needed to know so that she could be as patient as Coulson asked. When every atom in her body vibrated with rage she needed answers to still the storm.

It wasn't a long ride to the hospital, not long enough anyway. It was also too short an elevator ride and walk down the hallway. She entered Clint's room still uncertain as to how she would approach this, her list of demands, and settled to simply push forward.

When she opened the door he was awake and looking straight at her as if he was expecting her to walk through the door.

"Hi." She said, a little surprised.

"Hey."

She swallowed down her apprehension and walked to the bed, pulling the coin from her pocket, "Here."

He opened his hand and she slapped the coin down, eagle side up, "Talk to me."

He looked down at the coin, turning it over in his hand, "You've been in the house."

"Yeah."

He swallowed down the shame at her having seen the destruction in his home that so painfully reflected far more, far deeper things broken. There was nothing to be ashamed of, of course, but his own placating did little. Not when that same inner voice that tried to reassure him called him an idiot, weak, and foolish with greater fervor.

"Sammo." He finally said. What was one confession in the midst of this crushing exposure?

"What?" She frowned.

"That's who it's from, the coin. An old friend."

"An old friend?"

"Yeah."

"With old friends like that I can see why you have new ones." She pulled a chair over to the bed.

"It wasn't him." Was he part of it though? Most likely. It was a cutting realization and he wondered if the wince he felt inwardly showed. His wonder was answered soon enough.

"You okay? " Natasha asked, looking over the self-administering morphine pump at the side of his bed.

"Yeah, the arm." He shrugged it off.

She leaned back, arms crossed, "So you ever going to tell me who it was?"

"Nat-"

"Barney?" She had to ask, had to rip his evasiveness away like a band-aid. There was no place for it between them.

"Phil?" It had to be.

"He let me know your dead brother is alive, despite your info to the contrary. I assumed the rest."

"There are all kinds of dead Nat. I think you know that more than most."

"So it was him? It was Barney?"

"Does it matter?"  
"Does it matter?" She leaned forward, hand on his arm, "How the hell can it not matter? Are you just not processing this? Your arm….it was a contract, a hit...your brother...your arm..." She was repeating herself, going through the motions of her anger and grief as she spoke, seeing the destruction in his home, and on his body, before she caught herself and looked back to him, "How could it not matter?"

He grew silent and she stood pacing a minute before sitting back down beside him. He watched her settle before saying, "I just don't want it official. I don't want it in the books, alright. I don't want him on their radar. Not yet."

"Fine." She shook her head, confused as to why the hell it made any difference.

He saw it as easily as if she had said it aloud. "This isn't SHIELD business. This doesn't belong to them." He paused, "Revenge, justice, whatever the hell you want to call it belongs to me. It's between he and I. It's my family." He took her hand, "You gotta give me this one. Promise me you won't bring them in, you won't go after him either."

She looked him in the eyes, in the need so obvious it puddled in his retinas. It was there she saw it, the truth of it. She could scrub his floors, she could throw away the broken furniture, the broken glasses, and the debris of the investigative teams so he would never see it, but she could never, never face Barney for him. Only he could. He had to do this. He had to face down this one more dragon. How could she deny him? He was a fighter, had always been, and this time the beast was his own brother. The fight was his alone. It had to be.

Let it be. Let it be, Phil's words echoed in her ears and she could no longer deny the truth, the wisdom of his advice. For now she had to put away her need for Clint's. She shook her head and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. He raised his hand to the back of her head and pulled her close, his lips finding her own.

When she sat back down, their hands still clasped, she said, "I won't, but I still want to kick his ass and if I ever cross his path...I can't promise I won't make him remember me." She would track him down though. She would watch him. She would see who, what he was, but she would leave it at that. No one would ever know.

"I'd expect that." He looked away, down, and back to her, "Know what he said when he came at me?" She shook her head, "I love you." He watched her, his eyes shimmering more than before, "I love you. You believe that shit?" He took a breath. After so many years, so much lost time, so much longing, an I love you in that moment was more a blow than any of those that followed. For him it was a monumental truth to share with her, with anyone. "I don't know what I want to do to him."

She could think of nothing to say. All the anger that had boiled over for the past year now had a name, a form to blame beyond the faceless council. She could show Clint's brother exactly what the Red Room had taught her about love. But on the back of that feeling she was shocked to feel another. "It wouldn't change anything." She said low while staring at her hands, before looking back to Clint.

"What?" He looked lost in his own thoughts. Too far from her own drifting contemplations.

"Revenge. It wouldn't change anything." She knew her partner. She knew if he went after his brother, if he gave him tit for tat, or worse, he would never come back from it the same.  
He shook his head, staying one step behind her thoughts, "Would feel damn good though."  
"Maybe in the moment. But justice-."  
"Justice-"  
"Listen, you go after him and he becomes a victim, his blood is on your hands. But you make him face what he's done before the law and maybe, just maybe, he'll know what a monster he is." Was she really advocating for bringing SHIELD into this? She surprised herself but she knew she was fighting for Clint. She was fighting for him to stay the man he was. The man who had found her, who had refused to wipe her out without a second chance, the man who would never choose cold-hearted vengeance. Even in the wake of this.

"You trying to convince me or yourself about that? I'm not looking for revenge Nat. Hell, maybe I just want to forget about...all this. But..." He shifted, his eyes glancing back to the coin in his hand, "What if what I should do, what if what I'm _supposed_ to do is protect the world from him? Wipe him out before..." His thoughts trailed away again a beat too long. He thought of an infected crop, how a field sometimes needs to be burned, left to rest a season, to wash the soil clean. That was his family, he'd often thought, a field full of blight.

Natasha watched his thoughts drift, "I doubt you really think that. I know you too well. For all your angry-faced, hard-assed cynicism you actually hold on to hope where there should be none."

"Yeah, well some people would call that naiive." He looked over himself, the wreck his brother had left behind. Again. "Some would just call it stupid."

Her eyes softened and she smiled lovingly. It was a side of the Black Widow few were lucky enough to see, "Are you ever going to see the man I see?"

"Doubt it Nat. You're kinda blinded by this exterior charm."

"Charm? That what you call it?"

He shrugged, "Sure. It's a word." He squeezed her hand, "Think I'll catch some z's, alright. We'll talk later?"

She nodded, leaned forward, and kissed him. "I'll be here when you wake up." She walked toward the door but stopped and looked back at him. There were three words they (really only she) had promised to never say. Three words that rested on the edge of her lips that she now bit to silence. "Rest up Hawk." She let loose in their place as she slipped out the door, unwilling to hear his response.

"Back at'ya Romanoff." he said to the closed door, responding to the words she'd stifled but they both heard all the same. He watched a moment before turning back to the zloty now on the side-table. The small coin watching him like a bird of prey. He turned away. It was a battle for another time. It's field undecided. It's combatants not yet ready.

 _The Story Goes On..._


End file.
